Weeks
by imogenedisease
Summary: There were weeks at a time when he hated you. DracoHarry


_they slit our throats  
like we were flowers  
_

Keeping my eyes on the apparation in the dark, the silver eyes, silver smile, I almost know what I want. His fingers, long and elegant, run along my skin, branding me beyond recognition. I'm sickened by the apathy implied by his touch, but nevertheless lean into it, eyes shut.

If I could watch him, I just know that his eyes would soften. I know that he'd smile, love trapped in the depths of his gaze. But when I open my eyes he's nearly a statue, face impassive, eyes cold.

_and our milk has been  
devoured_

He makes the prettiest sounds, soft moans and whimpers, but I know he's bored with this, can tell by the cut of his jaw and his clenching and unclenching fists. I can tell by the way he's given up, calls me Harry because I ask him to. There's no challenge anymore.

I want to be bored as well, want to be apathetic about the end. Every time I try to force acceptance of the loss, try to leave him first, before he breaks my heart, I lose all semblance of independence. I return to his cool embrace, and bury my face into his touch.

__

when you want it  
it goes away too fast  


There were weeks, months even, when he wanted me. He was feverish beneath my touch, helpless and so desperate. He was nothing like the boy I had known, the definition of elegance and propriety. He was desperate for my lips, my eyes, my touch, my smile.

He was different, but I didn't care. I loved him anyway, for what he'd be for me. He was hot, then icy, warm then cool. It hardly mattered to me. I needed his touch, and his emotion. It didn't matter what emotion he deemed me worthy of, as long as he felt for me.

The emotion in him drained after time. Sometimes I think he transferred it to me.

_times you hate it  
always seems to last_

There were weeks when he was silent. Unruffled by everything, he ignored my lips, my eyes, my touch, my smile. He was pliant in my arms, allowing me my petty pleasures, unreactive beneath me. I would come, but it was empty, and I felt so disgusting when I pulled away.

Those weeks dragged on, his soft torture often bringing me to tears. I never cried in front of him, not once, but he knew I cried. I think, in those weeks, that he liked that a little, he liked to see my bloodshot eyes, liked to know that he could affect me so profoundly.

_  
just remember when you think  
you're free  
the crack inside your fucking heart is me  
_

I think there were weeks when he wanted to leave. Weeks where he whimpered at my touch, almost afraid. Those weeks I was terrified that I'd come to find him gone, no note, nothing but silence and something almost mocking. I figured he'd leave some romantic bauble, something pathetic enough to remind me we would never be that, never be the cliche, perfect couple.

In those weeks, he was skittish, constantly in motion, tapping and fidgeting. He would avoid my eyes, but when he looked at me, he slowed down, seemed to calm. When he looked into my eyes he almost smiled, and he would lay with me, allow my touch. And then it occured to me that he was as trapped as I was.

_  
I wanna outrace the speed of pain for another day_

There were weeks when he was violent, when every word was a growl, every touch left a mark. He would take me, brutal and obscene, not even aware of himself until he came. When he came, he did so in silence, and only when he noticed the damage I had taken, did he come back to himself.

For a few lovely moments he was concerned, touching me softly, healing surface wounds with a careful grace. When he was finished, he'd kiss me softly, and the next day he'd do it all over again. __

I wish I could sleep  
but I can't lay on my back  
because there's a knife  
for everyday that I've known you  


Sometimes I hate him. I hate the angry weeks, the scared weeks, the silent weeks. I even hate the happy weeks, the weeks when he loved me as strongly as I loved him. I hate every week I have spent with him, hate his touch and his eyes and his almost-smile.

I wish I had never known him, never met him, awkward on a stool at eleven. I wish for many things, but then when I think about it, every wish involves him. I wish he loved me, I wish I was enough, I wish he wouldn't grow to hate me.

_  
lie to me, cry to me, give to me  
I would  
_

There's days, only days, when he smiles. He never spends those days with me.

_lie with me, die with me, give to me  
I would  
_

On my back, on the floor, on the ground, and on the bed. I alone look into his eyes for hours at a time, I alone attempt to calculate their depths. He allows it, an absentminded look upon his face, and I wonder what he thinks of when I observe him.

He looks almost dreamy, silent and serene. I wish I could say that he was thinking about me, but I know that'd be a lie._  
_

_I hope at least we die holding hands  
for always._

I close my eyes, ignore his moods, his lies, his indiscretions. I ignore his sharp words, his smirk, his barbed touch. I love him, I always will, will through slit throats and blasphemy. He doesn't love me, but it doesn't matter anyway. He's too weak to leave me.

I will never leave him, not for anything, so this is the way we'll be, stuck in this cycle until he dies with me.


End file.
